


for want of a body

by simplycarryon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: further adventures in alphys remembering that she has friends, goofy self-indulgent wtfery, mad dummy gets a body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 03:45:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5482166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplycarryon/pseuds/simplycarryon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mettaton wants you to build another body. Not for him, of course -- for his cousin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for want of a body

**Author's Note:**

> what the fuck is this, Kay, you ask
> 
> the answer is: I don't know! I've been working on this on and off over the last month or so and it's stopped making any real sense to me. but it's ridiculous and I wanted to share it. I don't honestly know how the ghosts are related but, listen, let me have this,
> 
> no real warnings on this one! mentions of disordered eating because Alphys forgets to eat sometimes but other than that and some punchings we should be good

“Alphys,” Mettaton says, in that voice that says _I only need a tiny favor, darling,_ and usually ends up meaning _could you please rebuild my limbs because I blew them up in a fight with a ten-year-old._

“Mettaton,” you reply as he waltzes in dramatically (god, does he ever do anything non-dramatically, you wonder. the answer is no) and pirouettes to your desk, slamming a long leg down over your research. 

Well, at least his legs are still intact. 

“What did you break this time?”

“Break? Me?” He pretends to be shocked, placing a hand over his chest dial in a gesture of robotic hurt. “Darling, I don’t break things. I just reorganize them violently and then they don’t work.”

You snort, and push his leg off your papers. “Hate to, uh, break it to you, but that’s breaking. What do you need? I’m about to watch the new episode of Mew Mew Kissy Cutie, if you want to just hang out—“

“Ugh.” He makes _that face,_ the one that you know full well means he is not fond of your viewing choices, and you resist the nigh-overwhelming urge to turn the volume dial on his chest all the way down to zero. _“Unfortunately,_ darling, I’m not here for the, er, hangouts. As much as Pap has been rubbing off on me in that respect lately. No, I’m here to ask for a tiny favor—“ 

You prop your chin up on your hand, unsurprised.

“Don’t look at me like that, Alphys sweetheart, I promise I didn’t break anything. It’s just, you did such a _wonderful_ job of designing and building my body, and it means so much to me—“ He falls silent for a moment, looking a little embarrassed at that last admission. Somehow, miraculously, you don’t tease him. If there’s a virtue system in play, you figure you’re well on your way to sainthood at this point. “Well, mm. You know. I do truly appreciate your work, dear Dr. Alphys, and I was wondering if you could be persuaded to… do it again.”

“What.”

“I have a cousin in need of a body, that’s all,” he says, like building a body is no big deal—and honestly it’s not, if you put your mind to it, but when do you ever feel like putting your mind to anything lately? Putting your mind to things is hard and requires a focus you just don’t have these days. “They have yet to find the perfect body, and I thought it would be a fun little project for the two of you to collaborate on.” 

“And by collaborate, you mean I do all the work, and they complain the legs aren’t long enough?” you ask, dryly, reaching for the notebook stuffed to bursting with your old Mettaton schematics anyways. You _could_ make use of some parts you’ve just had lying around for future repairs.

“Well, they weren’t,” Mettaton says firmly. “But that’s all in the past, darling. And yes. Ideally, they won’t ask for too much.”

“I don’t think anyone could ask for as much as you did, anyway.” You grab a sheaf of new paper, too, and your sketching pencils, the good ones that you haven’t gnawed to knobby bits. “Honestly, as long as they’re not asking for laser knees, I think I can manage it. A-And no, I’m not building you laser knees, laser brain.”

Mettaton guffaws, and immediately claps a hand over his mouth, his artificial blush kicking in. It’s kind of cute, you think, trying not to think about the countless hours of research that went into developing the technology that would allow him to blush like a flustered bishounen. “Thankfully, darling, I don’t need laser knees. I’m fabulous just as I am. So you’ll help my cousin?”

“I… yeah, sure,” you say, because he just looks so hopeful, and really it is kind of fun to build robots, now that you’re not an Official Royal Scientist, you’re just Alphys, A Scientist. (Sometimes you think Toriel canning your ass was the best thing that ever happened to you.) “I’ll draw up some quick sketches, if you can give me an idea of what they’d like to look like.”

“Darling, I wouldn’t know the first thing about what it is that they want,” Mettaton says, already sashaying towards the door. “Surprise me? I’ll bring them by tomorrow, after you’ve had some time to think about what beautiful things their absolutely wonderful body could use.”

“Give me a little warning that you’re coming by next time!” you call after him, and you think maybe the wave of his hand means he heard you but with Mettaton you’re never sure.

 

 

You do remember that Mettaton has a sad DJ cousin, from the few times you met them while visiting him, and you have some pretty cute ideas for a sad DJ body that you sketch out. A turntable in the center mass above the heart capsule, extra speakers and modulation dials, a cute cap they can pull over their eyes if they get too shy…

You wake up to your phone vibrating wildly off your desk, and you have papers stuck to your face and your desk is covered in variations on cute body shapes you think Mettaton’s cousin will like, and Mettaton is texting you aggressively cheerful emojis and _WE’RE FIVE MINUTES AWAY FROM YOUR HOUSE, DARLING._ You text back a single thumbs-up emoji, collecting your thoughts and your drawings into neatish piles before they arrive.

“We’re here, gorgeous!” Mettaton sings, throwing your door open.

“G’morning,” you reply, yawning. “I have a few good sketches and some different body types we can work with. Where’s your cousin?”

Mettaton steps aside, gesturing with an enormous flourish to—a training dummy.

A training dummy that’s leaking cotton all over your floor in a way you can only describe as ‘angry’, and you glance halfheartedly at your sketches and then back at the dummy and then at Mettaton.

“How many cousins do you _have?”_

“All ghosts are cousins,” Mettaton says brightly. You stare at him blankly. Of course all ghosts are cousins. Why did nobody explain this to you, ever. “Mads, this is Dr. Alphys. She’s the one who built my body, and she’ll be helping you design one that I certainly hope you’ll have better luck fusing with.”

“Whatever. Whatever! WHATEVER!!” the dummy screeches, and—you recognize their voice, actually, you think they were Undyne’s old training dummy, which at least explains a fraction of the aggression. “I don’t need a body! Especially not from you!! You used to come around and distract what’s-her-name from her training!!”

“W-we had scheduled anime nights,” you inform them, not sure why you feel obligated to defend yourself from someone with no arms or legs. “Look, um, I thought it was going to be Mettaton’s other cousin, not… you. I can draw up some bodies for you but you probably won’t like any of these—“

“Probably not!!” the dummy says, hop-scooting forward anyway to look at the sketches you’ve done, and you think maybe it’s just a ghost thing to be Rude As Fuck, but whatever. “These look ridiculous and soft! I couldn’t imagine being trapped in one of th—“ and then there’s a contemplative pause, in which you think they’re just trying to find the right words to be an asshole, and “—are these supposed to be for Blooks??”

You shoot Mettaton a confused glance, and he joins his cousin in staring at your work. “Why, Alphys! Did you think I was bringing Blooky over? They aren’t the sort for, er, wanting a body really,” he says, picking up your favorite sketch, something gentle and soft-eyed with a bowtie and a tiny smile, “but these are all very nice and I think you should keep them on hand in case they ever do want one.”

“They’re… not horrible,” Mettaton’s cousin admits, their button glance slanting away from you somehow, like even the thought that you might have done something right in their eyes is embarrassing. “You have a good eye for things Blooks might like.”

“And that makes you okay in Mads’ book!” Mettaton says helpfully, flinging an arm around his cousin’s dummy shoulders.

Mads splutters, spraying a fresh layer of cotton over your drawings.

“I—whatever!! I don’t need a new body! But you’ve been okay to Metta, and you did all these not-terrible drawings for Blooks, so I guess I could tolerate you if I had to!!”

You try not to laugh at them, and you dust cotton off of your desk and grab a spare sheet of paper. 

“Why don’t we start with you telling me what kind of body you want?” you suggest, twiddling your pencil between your claws. “We can make a list of things, and then I can do some more concept work.”

 

 

It would have been faster to just draw until someone was satisfied, you think.

Your list consists mostly of things like “NOT-USELESS ARMS THAT ARE SUPER STRONG TO FIGHT WITH” and “LEGS THAT CAN KICK REALLY HARD” and “MAYBE ROCKET FISTS IN CASE THOSE FIRST TWO THINGS END UP BEING USELESS” and “ALSO LASER EYES SO I CAN LASER PEOPLE I HATE,” and if Mettaton didn’t look so absolutely thrilled with his cousin’s willingness to participate you think you would’ve told the dummy ghost to fuck off long ago. Laser eyes, _honestly._

But you have a list, at least, and a few ideas to run with. Mads is pretty into this whole fighting thing, and part of you really wants to rise to the challenge of designing them a battle-ready body. 

The other part of you is pretty sure that unleashing them and their rocket fists on the human populace would be very, very bad. Monsterkind has been trying for a while now to convince humans that they’re not harmful or dangerous, and—you get the feeling that Mads would be pretty okay with punching every single human right in the face if you gave them the arms to do it with. And as hilarious as that would be to record at first, it would be a pretty big dent in the whole peace idea.

Unfortunately, you kind of promised Mettaton you’d do this, and you can feel his stare boring holes in your back as you fidget with your pencil. 

Well, you could design Mads with hand-to-hand combat in mind, rather than rockets and lasers. There’s arenas for that kind of thing, places where people go to punch each other on purpose, and maybe they could get into that. Maybe they could tag-team with Undyne. That would actually be really cool, you think, thinking of Undyne taking on an arena full of people, armored and blazing with magic, all fluid fighting motion…

You tug at your collar a little bit and hope neither of your guests notices.

It doesn’t take you too long to design the actual body; Mads isn’t really particular about the shape of anything, though they do insist that their arms and legs be tough. Also their middle. And maybe their face. And—

You roll your eyes a little and draw their body more solid than Mettaton’s schematics, more able to take a hit. They won’t last forever, especially not against humans with the intent to kill, but they can tank a couple of hits and probably not even feel it.

Armor, then, and lots of it. Detachable, so they can relax if they want, though you aren’t sure they know the meaning of the word. You pattern their design after Mettaton’s, with the heart core tank at their center and a layer of thick magic-sealed protective glass over top, and then you draw up a couple different kinds of armor for Mads to grumble appreciatively about not being cool enough.

You’ve gotten pretty good at armor, if you do say so yourself. Granted, half of that is from studying anime armor for potential cosplay purposes (what? you could totally cosplay an armored cutie if you wanted to) and the other half is from studying Undyne’s armor, but between the two you have a good understanding of what’s necessary for different body types and how pieces are supposed to mesh together and function to protect the wearer. You’d probably redesign Mettaton’s, if he’d let you, but he’s all about the slim angled aesthetic and it’s not like he’s really going to be fighting anyone anyway.

(You try not to think too hard about how he got his ass kicked by a ten-year-old.)

Mads’ armor is solid, and you show them how it’ll fit, how the pieces will interlock and how it’ll affect their movement and speed. You give the forearm guards special flourishes and you streamline everything so it’s almost as fashionable as it is functional, and—you take a deep breath, and you let Mads look over the boot designs one more time, and then you guess you’re done.

You sit back and roll your shoulders, getting the cricks out. You’re used to hunching over your desk anyway, so it’s not a big deal, but it’s nice to sit up straight after all that, and you hand Mettaton the completed concept sketch and allow yourself an enormous sigh.

“Why, Maddy!” Mettaton says, his tone positively delighted. “Look at you! You’re going to be gorgeous!”

“Shut up!” Oh, if training dummies could blush. “Shut up!! SHUT UP!! I guess it looks okay! But I don’t really care either way!! When will it be done??”

“Uh, as soon as I can find the right parts?” you volunteer, unsure. “The metal shouldn’t be too hard to come by, now that we’re not waiting for parts to fall down from the surface, but that means I uh. Have to go and actually buy them.”

You don’t mention that you hate shopping because it means going out in public and being cheerfully harassed by overly enthusiastic probably-soulless retail workers; you don’t have to. Mettaton knows, and Mettaton also radiates excitement like you’ve offered him a one-time chance at stardom. “I’ll come with you, darling, and I’ll help you pick things out. Only the best for my dear cousin!”

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him, but he makes shushing motions and pushes you toward the door, ignoring your protests that you had meant you’d do it _later,_ you really wanted to have a little while to yourself and watch that episode you missed out on last night and you’re actually kinda hungry and you haven’t changed your clothes since yesterday and _wait wait wait—_

 

 

It takes you three days to assemble a working prototype, once you and Mettaton are done with your whirlwind shopping trip. (Which consists mostly of him flirting with the employees to get you the best parts available, but whatever. Everyone’s hot for Mettaton, so you have a significantly nicer pile of things than you thought you would, and Mettaton even helps you carry everything home.)

It’s infinitely more easy now that you have a good idea of how everything goes, and with Mettaton there willing to let you disassemble pieces of him to compare the wiring and connections, you make quick work of the parts that would otherwise have given you trouble.

It’s so strange, having Mettaton offer you actual assistance, even to lengths that pose a threat to his personal preening time. You press the issue, when you’re elbow-deep in his wiring, and he admits that his cousin has never been able to fuse with their dummy body; he thinks it’s an issue of an unsuitable vessel, something too-soft that doesn’t suit his cousin to any degree that they really want. Your bodies are better, he insists, confident despite your doubts, and that’s why he’s helping you. Because he cares a great deal about his cousin, and would like very much for them to be happy.

You hope he’s right. Part of you wants to think he is, that the body you built for him is tough and strong and you’ve worked out most of the battery issues—

—you realize belatedly and with a lot of swearing that Mads’ body is going to need extra battery capacity if they’re going to be expending a fuckload of energy by punching people in the face, and you add on two extra energy storage tanks and redistribute the weight in the legs to accommodate for the change—

—but even knowing how happy Mettaton is in his body, part of you still wants to believe that that happiness is a one-time thing, that you can’t possibly impact someone else’s life with such positivity again.

Mettaton remains resolute in his opinions of you, though, and if you’re honest, it’s kind of nice. You like the idea of someone believing in you, someone so sure you’ll succeed that he’s perfectly okay with you practically taking him apart to compare the work you’ve done on Mads’ body.

And it’s… actually pretty good work, you decide, pleased despite yourself. The joints could use some work, probably, but you have to get Mads to actually use the body for a couple of days to figure out exactly how much stress they’ll be putting on everything. You’re pretty sure the answer is “a lot,” because stress seems to be their thing, but that remains to be seen.

 

 

“So I just have to move my soul into this?” Mads asks, sidling up to their body with what you think might be interest; it’s hard to tell with the button eyes, but they’re reasonably expressive for a dummy with only one standard expression. “I haven’t moved bodies before.”

“Er, I think so?” You tap your pencil against your nose in a distracted pattern, eyeing the body lying flat on the table. “Mettaton wasn’t residing in anything when he took over his body, so… I don’t know exactly how it works, but uh. I imagine it’s about the same. You’ll just need to focus yourself on the heart core, and then I can walk you through the rest of the process.”

Mads eyes you askance, like they’re calculating whether it’s worth the trouble when they can just summon knife bullets in their current dummy state.

Behind you, Mettaton beams like a gloriously excited summer sunrise, and after a moment they relent.

“Whatever,” they snap, hopping a little closer to the body and pointing their dummy nose at the heart-shaped core lying dormant in the center of their new body. You would probably think it was cute, if their attitude didn’t make you want to punch them in the back of the head. “I’m going to start now, so don’t get distracted!”

You nod, and for a moment, everything is quiet.

“Maddy, darling,” Mettaton says after a moment. “You didn’t forget how to—“

“Shut up!” Mads screeches, their eyebrows slanting at sudden and dangerous angles. “Shut up!! Shut up!!! I don’t care! I remember how to do this!! I don’t need help!!!”

“Of course, of course.” A nonchalant handwave, then, as if to appease them. “How silly of me, cousin dearest.”

Mads glares figurative daggers at their body, and you’re a little surprised no dagger-bullets actually get thrown in the process. You can, actually, see their soul as they concentrate; they’re a pale gray-white, like old musty cotton, and—you think for a second you see stitches in the edges, like their soul is a child’s arts and crafts attempt. 

They reach for their body with magic, first. Their presence isn’t a strong one—a ghostly essence, if you had to be really obvious about it—but you can feel them moving, feel the shard of themself that they sink into the empty heart core.

“Good. Now just, um. Keep doing that?” you encourage them, putting your clipboard aside. “That core will focus your presence and, uh, distribute your magic properly so that nothing gets short circuited or fried once you're up and running. Unless you’re like your cousin and take it out to let people _shoot it.”_

(Mettaton doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed when you stare at him over your glasses for Maximum Scolding Effect. Whatever.)

The heart core lights up—orange, you notice, fitting perhaps for someone who probably doesn’t know how to stop moving—and a second later, Mads’ dummy body collapses into ragged cotton-leaking pieces on the floor. That’s a good indication, even if Mettaton’s mouth pulls in a worried line; it means the transfer’s all but complete, and Mads’ presence is no longer inhabiting the dummy.

And—a second later, their eyes fly open.

“Excellent,” you say, breathing a tiny sigh of relief. You push the heart tank closed, latching it securely; there’s still plenty to be tested, but you’re pretty sure the worst is over. “Now, I’m going to run you through some basic calibration tests, to make sure you’ve got the hang of things. Try saying something?”

They blink a little, like they’re still trying to find the connections that will let them make sound at all, and then there’s an ear-splitting screech from the speaker on their chest. 

You dive for the dial and crank it down. “Okay, whoa, let’s not break your voicebox. I can fix it if you do but it’s probably bad luck to shred your speaking capabilities in the first ten seconds of using them?” 

“Whatever,” comes tiny and angry through the speaker on their chest. “Whatever, whatever. Turn that back up, I can’t yell when it’s down.”

“That would be the point,” you tell them with a frown, but then you relent. “Okay, how about this. Give your new fingers a whirl and try turning it up yourself?”

You move your hand away, and—nothing happens. You half expect Mads to flail wildly on the table, because fine motor control is hard when you’re not accustomed to having arms, let alone hands and pinchy fingers, but—they don’t even move, aside from blinking wildly and tilting their head a little, and this concerns you a great deal. They should be moving. Overexerting themselves, even, in the newness of it all.

“Are you, um—“

“Futile!!” they squeak, still tiny, the volume dial one click away from off. “Futile, FUTILE!!! I don’t know how to do this! Arms are weird!! How do you use them!!!”

Mettaton tries to step in. You stop him, flinging an arm across his chest hard enough that it smarts. “Don’t.”

“Darling—“

“I probably just miswired something, like a dumbass!” you inform him, louder than you mean to, because the knowledge that you were right about being an idiot and you can’t even build a fucking robot correctly stings more than you thought it would. “Let me tinker with things, maybe I—crossed some wires or something—“ You pry the panel off Mads’ chest, and your eyes and throat burn and you try not to cry into the delicate exposed circuts.

You stamp down the tears and the numbing sensation of uselessness and you focus on your claws, your fingers, the wires. There. Something burned out, maybe from the stress of Mads’ forceful soul taking residence, and you replace the damaged part and reconnect everything and take a deep breath. This is okay. Probably. If they’re still broken you might just go lie in bed for the rest of your life because you can’t even make a robot work, but hey.

“Okay,” you say, pushing the chest panel back into place until it clicks. “Watch my claws, please?” 

You move your claws from side to side, and Mads follows with their eyes. Good, you didn’t royally fuck up their sight, at least. “Excellent. Now, let’s—let’s get you sitting upright, maybe.” You nod to Mettaton, who pirouettes into place on the other side of his cousin, and between the two of you you ease Mads into a sitting position. 

They wobble a little, but they’re built tough, and sitting up isn’t all that strenuous anyway.

“Alright. Now—let’s try the dial again?” you suggest, picking up their right arm gently to guide their grasp. “Touch these two fingers together, first. You’ll use your thumb and first finger to work the dial, like so—“ You pinch yours together, showing them the movement a few times; they watch with rapt attention, and then try it out themselves. A simple gesture, but it makes you feel better. They’re moving. You’re not a failure.

They grab for the dial, then, fumbling loosely for the knob. It’s not hard to turn, but they lack the control necessary for it, so their attempts are thick-fingered and irritable.

Mettaton, on the other hand, looks like he might burst with pride.

“Come on, Mads!” he exclaims, practically vibrating. “You can do it! I believe in you! You’re doing fantastic, darling!” 

Mads repeats the pinching motion a few times, and then, miraculously, their fingers close over the dial and they twist until it’s about even with where Mettaton’s sits.

“Bravo, Maddy! I knew you could do it—“

Mads’ fingers curl rounded and tight into their palm.

In one surprisingly fluid motion, they surge over and across and slam their fist directly into Mettaton’s face.

There’s a part of you that, ever grounded, is absurdly pleased with the smooth-sharp motion, with the way the elbow joint you painstakingly designed absorbs the shock of the punch that sends Mettaton sprawling backwards into your blueprints. That part of you takes note of the force behind the strike, calculates damages, and realizes that you could maximize efficiency by tweaking the wrist shape just a little.

There’s another part of you that is intensely concerned for your friend’s wellbeing.

The rest of you is too busy laughing at Mettaton to really care.

When you finally manage to stop laughing long enough to think clearly, you do feel a little bad. Mettaton isn’t really designed for being punched; he’s an entertainment robot, built to shine under a spotlight. You didn’t give him shock absorbing anything, because you didn’t think he’d be defending himself from much. (Clearly, this was your mistake.) But—Mettaton picks himself up from your scattered blueprints, beaming, and—nevermind, you think; you were worried for nothing. He’s fine.

“That felt amazing!” Mads says, their voice still wavering a little as they get accustomed to it. “Arms are amazing! I’ll take six!!”

“You get two,” you tell them firmly, because both robots turn to look at you like you’re the arms dealer. ( _Groan._ You’ve been spending too much time with Sans, apparently.) “I don’t even want to know what you’d do with six arms. I imagine you’ll punch enough people just with two of them.”

“I will punch _everyone,”_ Mads says, their eyes gleaming like you’ve given them the best gift on the face of the planet.

“You can punch Mettaton all you want,” you offer, and WHAM, Mettaton takes a left hook to the face and goes flying backwards again. You feel an intense spike of guilt, but from his spot on the floor he pops one leg up and into the air and poses seductively, and the guilt evaporates. “Actually—maybe cool it on the punching for a little bit? Let’s run you through some more calibration exercises, and uh, then maybe we can call Undyne and ask her to come spar with you. She likes punching.”

If nothing else, you figure, it’ll be a great stress test for how much punishment Mads’ body can take. 

 

 

Asking Undyne to come over is the best idea you’ve had in a long time, you think, watching her fight with Mads. They already know her fighting style, having been her training dummy for—a while anyway, you’re not actually sure how long—and that gives them a little room to maneuver. They’re not _winning,_ of course; they still have to learn how to control their body aside from throwing wild haymakers at errant cousins, but it’s a start.

Plus it means you get to write off gawking at Undyne’s battle form as making sure Mads’ body is holding up, soooooo. You watch her, mostly, with occasional glances at Mads to make sure they haven’t lost their arms, and you munch popato chisps with the ravenous existence of someone who’s been heckled into missing meals by a robot who forgets that people need to eat sometimes.

Mettaton settles in next to you, his attention entirely fixed on his cousin. (Even better, you think. Now you can focus entirely on Undyne.) The silence stretches, an oddity for Mettaton if not for you.

Across the room, Undyne yells and throws Mads bodily through your window.

(You’ve had to dedicate a fund specifically for replacing windows broken by the Yell Friends and it’s such a _pane_ in the ass—and you make a mental note to punch Sans in the shoulder for planting all these bad puns in your head.)

“Thank you, Alphys,” Mettaton says, finally.

You—don’t know what to say to that, if you’re honest, so you cram another chip in your mouth to give yourself more time to think.

“I mean it, darling,” he adds, when you don’t respond. “I know I—I’m not the best friend I could be. And I do break the things you build me more than I should. And I forget to visit. And—“

“You’re just digging your hole deeper.” You smile anyway. The fact that he’s acknowledging any of this is amazing, really; you wish you had something to record it with for the next time he goes swanning off to get his ass kicked by a child, or when he doesn’t visit for three months straight and you start thinking he actually hates you.

Mettaton goes a shade of red you’ve never seen before—which is saying something, because you created him—and looks down at his hands. “I-I know. What I mean to say, darling, is—I am absurdly, brilliantly grateful to you, for my body and for theirs, and—thank you. For everything.”

You pop another chip in your mouth and crunch it thoughtfully. “You’re welcome. And uh, th-thanks for believing in me. It’s—it’s really weird. To be trusted like that.”

“Alphys, love, I trust you with all of my heart,” Mettaton says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Literally. You have handled my soul, darling. That isn’t something I’m willing to let just anyone do.”

“You let Frisk shoot it,” you remind him with a grin. He sighs dramatically, the sound of spinning fans, and knocks his head softly against yours in a tiny gentle gesture. “We’re kinda fucked up, aren’t we?”

“Mm.”

“Still friends, though.”

“Always, darling.”

You can hear the smile in his voice, and that’s good enough for you.


End file.
